FATE

 

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Standing under the

corrugated iron metal,

protected from the

rain of Wyvern,

I fail to hear 

Hermes

screeching around

my Cyric mind

faster than

Clarkson’s larks.

 

Medusa has me

under her spell,

as the Pixar like

contraption, 

Colt Seavers style

approaches.  

 

It passes like a

near earth object

guided by Moirai.

You recover,

laugh and carry on.

I catch my bus

dwelling

on the health appointment

I’m attending.

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